


Slip Of Time

by D3moira



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Cute, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Short Drabble, Short One Shot, short drabble collection, short works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:25:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D3moira/pseuds/D3moira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of short one-shots based on moments between Beth and Daryl. Inspired by anons and general prompts. Prompts and credit will be given at the end of each entry, if there is credit to be given. Alternating POV and non-sequential.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleepy Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep comes easily when you're this tired.

Beth was an inelegant sleeper. There were no birds twittering round her quietly, nor storybook mice to truss up her sheets. Her lip and cheek were caught sliding down the cushion, her hair a mess, and the softest of snores rattling through her nose. This hadn’t been her intention. While Daryl had been out securing the perimeter, she had been folding clothes. She hated how he stuffed everything in his bag with no folding, nor fixing. So she thought she’d do something nice for him, and fold it. An attempt at normality, in a world that had none.

That’s when she’d sat down, fussing over stains and buttons. There was nothing to be done about it, and she didn’t really try to fix it. She merely tutted her tongue, wishing they were back at the prison. It’d been days since she’d slept on something soft. Beth decided to test the couch properly, now on her side.

Beth was out like a light, his shirt clutched in hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d clung to a shirt like it was giving her life. The habit had started back at her farmhouse, when Jimmy had to sleep downstairs. She had his football jersey, the one with a hole in the shoulder. That seemed so long ago now, and it was long since burned.

Everything burned in their wake, but she never stopped feeling cold. It had happened with the farmhouse, and had happened again with the prison. She had faith still, and knew that the fire was cleansing. Even if the world looked like the epitome of Hell, with walkers roaming, spiked traps and fire, there was goodness.

There was warmth. From someone close, from someone real, from someone who cared. It wasn’t Maggie, or Hershel, or even Carol (or Lori). It was a man who had used his hand for gutting squirrels to eat, and smashing walkers heads in. All in the pursuit of survival, and in the pursuit of more. Hopefully, of more.

Idly, still in her slumber, she leaned into the brief hand at her cheek, lips ghosting a smile. There was no blind faith in her. There was determination, there was a desire to not only survive, but thrive. With Daryl, she at least had one person left surviving for, and for living with.

All this for a stained, worn shirt that smelled like Daryl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon message: "Hey, Beth, we--" Daryl stopped talking as he stepped into the room and found her curled up asleep on the threadbare feather couch. He sighed and stooped to pull the thin, dirty wool blanket from his trashbag on the floor. Spreading it over the girl to keep her warm, he paused at the sight of his spare shirt clutched in her arms. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek before pulling his hand back, and moving to keep watch from a spot on the floor. -crossbowandacherokeerose


	2. Ask For Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first kiss shouldn’t be asked for.

 There was silence all around the moonshine cabin, in a way that Beth hadn’t known since the prison. Daryl had spoken more these past few days than she think she’d ever heard, and she had returned the favor in kind. But with the ease of conversation, she hadn’t noticed the strength of the brew. This happened all the time with her friends, back in the day. She would sip her water and watch them shotgun beers, and then throw it all up.

 Beth hadn’t felt superior for her sobriety, but she definitely hadn’t understood how people could drink till they were sick. If a few sips was gonna make her go blind, she didn’t want to think about the damage two jars was gonna do. But she kept together enough that it was too late to stop her from going too far. By the time Daryl had announced he was gonna go on watch, she was gone.

 ”Just stay there.”

 Beth stared, doe-eyed and wondering up at Daryl, keenly aware of the sharp cut muscles of his arms, the slant of his collarbone, and the dip of his brow. Were church a thing still, she’d certainly have things to confess for, just from the problematic turn her mind had taken. Daryl wasn’t like Erik, or Jimmy, and he certainly wasn’t someone she should be thinking about.

 ”If you say so.”

 ”I do.”

 Beth sent him a petulant sneer, rolling her eyes.

 With her limbs too loose to fight back, she let him drop a blanket over her, her head bumping against the cushion of a chair. Her makeshift bed was so much nicer than she’d thought it’d be. But then she got to thinking, that it wasn’t the bed that was comfy, it was the alcohol burning inside her.

 It was warm, it was nice, it was comfortable, and it scared her. Was this why her daddy had drunk so much in his youth? It made all your problems feel as far away as your feet, so distant but still at the foundations of you. She wiggled her toes in her shoes, now realizing she couldn’t even feel them. Then the warmth drew up along her abdomen, to her ribs, to her throat.

 That wasn’t good — or was it?

 ”Daa— rr — ” Beth gurgled, her fingers pressed against her lips. An awful fiery burp popped out of her, and she nearly cried with laughter. Okay, no more of this stuff. It made her mind spin and her hands shake. She set aside one of the jars she’d been holding onto. The effects of the moonshine had taken their time to kick in, or they seemed to have.

 ”Darly — eee-eh.” Beth was up, sitting, staring around the cabin. And then she was up, shaking arms, feet catching on all the bits of debris. There was the smell of smoke from outside, which drew her. She’d never liked the smell of smoke before, but now it reminded her of Daryl, and of the group, and that made her feel safe.

 Clumsy didn’t capture the way Beth walked across the cabin. Her knees were no better than a calf’s at birth, and she could feel it. She stumbled this way and that, knocking over a lamp and a couple of mason jars.

 ”Ah — Ah’m sorry mister L — Lamp. I hope y’kiddy jars are okay, I didn’t mean them no harm.” Beth tried not to giggle, but it failed, and she dissolved into laughter. Her laughter turned to tears, then back again, and Beth wiped her snotty nose and eyes on a slip of fabric.

 ”Are you talkin’ to the furniture?”

 ”Daryl!”

 A hand found her mouth, matched by serious eyes and an amused smile. “You really are a happy drunk — but, you can’t… You gotta stay quiet. Walkers.”

 Beth dimly registered that he was close to her, that his hand was over her mouth, and that she should be angrier with him. But she was in such a good mood, how could she be mad. The hand moved away now,  so he could direct her back to the bed he’d made for her.

 ”Can I kiss you?” Beth asked, her hands set on his shoulders, her eyes unfocused on his face. While the world had been a soft mish-mash of shapes before, it was now all eerily focused. There was something in Daryl’s eyes, something that looked like anger, or fear, or something. It didn’t seem like he’d say yes.

 ”Some moonshine.” Daryl shook his head, going to stand up. She kept her hands firmly on his shoulders, for what little good that did. She wound up standing back up with him, stumbling about again.

 ”Ah’m serious! Sorry — you seem like, I gotta ask, y’know, I don’t wanna — I don’t wanna make you mad, or upset you, but you just look really… I just feel like I wanna kiss you.”

 That wasn’t the right thing to say either. Daryl allowed her to clutch to his shoulders, but he wasn’t looking at her, he wasn’t really paying attention to her. He was staring at the wall, anywhere except for her.

 “You got me that locket — so — you like me, don’t you? Or you, you care about me.” Beth frowned. “It ain’t the moonshine talkin’, neither.”

 ”Just sleep.” Daryl took her hands from his shoulders, setting her down once more. Beth felt so mad, she could barely stand it. This hadn’t been how she’d meant to ask him, not drunk, not stumbling around. She’d ruined everything, and all for some tacky moonshine and a fuzzy feeling in her tummy.

 ”Can I sit outside with you instead?” Beth asked softly, the watery smile on her lips betraying another stage of her drunkenness. Daryl conceded quickly enough, snatching up the blanket and Beth in one go. If she was gonna keep grumbling and stumbling around like an idiot, it was better to stick close to him.

 So Beth watched the stars out of the corner of her eye, and snuck kisses against his chest when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She was glad, in truth, that he hadn’t agreed to kiss her. She had thought she wanted a drink, and she hadn’t. She had thought she wanted to kiss him, and she hadn’t — not drunk, not in that shitty house.

 Maybe they’d find somewhere nice.

 Maybe they’d find peace.

 Maybe then she wouldn’t need to ask permission, and it’d feel right, and sweet, and true. Maybe she was just a little too drunk to realize how different Daryl was from her, and how much more she needed to know about him before they’d be ready for that.

 ”Y’sleep?”

 Beth drooled in response, lip smeared across his chest. Daryl absently rested his lips against the top of her head, with no kiss, no pressure, just for comfort, and for the knowledge that she was more than he’d anticipated. At least she was a happy drunk, and he was too broken to abuse that.


	3. It's Not Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison-in-happy-mode with a lil jealous Daryl and a kiss on the cheek. uwu

”Thank yah Beth!” Mika chirped, after hugging her.

 ”Y’best get to story time, a’fore you’re late!” Beth called after Mika, her finger pointed after the young girl. With only her father and sister, Beth saw a lot of herself in the girl. As with all the kids at the prison, Beth felt compelled to care for them. So many had lost their mothers and fathers, and she knew what that was like.

 A kind gesture, like a hug or a smile, could make a world of difference. She knew this well, from when Lori had sat with her after her mother had died. That hurt less to think about now, but was still an absence in her life. Beth moved along the tables, collecting dishes here and there. Between the work she did in the kitchens, and the kids she cared for, Beth was feeling more and more at home.

 Almost like normal. She lingered at the counter, a lazy smile splitting her features as she enjoyed the afternoon sun. The feeling that someone was watching never seemed to leave her, not with walkers all about. But today, it wasn’t so alarming, or scary. Not in the usual sense.

 And she spotted down the line of tables that it had been Daryl watching her. He’d not looked away quickly enough, but maybe that was intentional. Daryl wasn’t one to talk while he ate, so he kept to his corner. He was too busy licking his fingers clean, and getting every morsel of food into him as quickly as possible. He was nearly always the first to finish, too, so he could rush out to watch.

 Or, he’d turn up when everyone else was leaving for their shifts on watch, or on water cleaning. She walked across to him, eyebrow raised. He didn’t look back, not once. So Beth approached, a trash bin lid pressed to her front like a waitress tray.

 ”What?”

 Daryl didn’t say anything, just kept chewing away.

 ”Daryl, what.” Beth sat down, setting the lid by the chair’s leg.

 ”Just surprised that Erik kid ain’t millin’ around.”

 “‘Scuse me?” Beth looked like a cat who’d got the cream, and it showed. Daryl’s expression went strange, as if wondering what he’d said to garner such a response.

 ”Just sayin’. Does your dad know ‘bout him?”

 ”Are you worryin’ about me, Daryl?” Beth pushed up from the table, allowing him space. She snatched up her bin lid, trying her hardest not to laugh. “It’s just a silly little  _thing_ , it’s not serious. I like him, he likes me, an’ I don’t think my daddy  _needs_  t’know.”

 Daryl gave her the most deadpan look she’d ever seen, as if she’d asked him if his dream was to be the queen of England. “Ain’t my business to tell nobody — I have shit to do that actually matters.”

 Beth leaned down to peck him on the cheek, ignoring the rasp of stubble and smell of sweat. Nothing like Erik, who was fresh-faced and soft, like her. They matched, a pair of teens lost at the end of the world. She lingered briefly, her hand on his shoulder.

 “Ah promise, there’s nothin’ to tell him anyhow.” Beth shrugged a shoulder, wiggling her hand at Daryl. “Not till marriage, even if everything is going t’hell.” And off Beth went, collecting her dishes, trying her hardest to ignore how amused she was with herself.


	4. warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhere between 4x09 and the start of 4x11.

The trickle of a creek kept away the silence, as well as the crunch of her boots. Beth was a klutz in the forest compared to Daryl. She wanted to ask how he managed it, but there’d be no answer. Or there’d be a grunt, a shrug, a narrow of the eyes. But there wouldn’t be an answer.

Beth knew nothing about Daryl, outside of how good he was at survival. It made sense that he used to hunt, she thought. Maybe it was all to do with that. Otis used to tell her tips on how to hunt, even before the outbreak. He'd made mention of quiet feet, and how that was essential to the approach. Your prey would get wise and flee, if they heard you approach.

The creek awed around the banks, and that was when Beth noticed that Daryl wasn't ahead of her. He'd been ahead, sure, but he always ducked and weaved. She looked behind her, ahead of her, her chest in motion and her blood gone cold. Except she felt eight kinds of hot, the fear clutched at her belly.

It would be okay. He'd do this sometimes, just speed up to check ahead, or to scout, or hunt, or -- she could  _do_ this. Beth tongued her chapped lips apart, and resisted the urge to bite them.

While her pace slowed, her heart kept its frantic tattoo. She palmed through the low leaves and stringy trees, only to still when she saw movement ahead.

_Asshole._

If he would only say he was going to go ahead, she'd be okay. Or, if he said he'd be back, that'd be fine, too. But the absolute nerve to up and run off was an irritation. He was a good tracker, and he seemed assured that he'd always find her, but that added to her annoyance. Just because he could find her didn't mean he could do that. What if she needed to find him? What if _he_ needed help? None of these questions rose out of her. Instead, she watched with a nasty angle to her brow as he stepped towards her.

Daryl was so natural within the woods, and that annoyed her, too.

There was a house, he’d said.

Actually, he’d grunted the word ‘house’. Beth was forced to play the game where she’d pick apart the sounds to figure out the meaning. It’d started after the prison, and only become harder through the weeks that followed. But tonight they’d have four walls and a door, for a night.

Beth could remember beds, blankets, all that stuff, but it felt like a movie rather than a memory. This house was more of a single room, bracketed with metal sheets and covered in foliage, and Beth would not call it a house. It was more like a garage, but she kept that to herself. If he wouldn’t speak, then neither would she.

A few couches were strewn inside, with a soiled mattress and kitchenware. There might have been appliances, once upon a time, but they were gone. The whole thing smelled of mildew and decay, and the roof was about to drop in. Beth settled in a corner, where she’d collected a few couch cushions and cleaned out most of the natural rot.

Neither spoke, neither acknowledged the other, and she couldn’t say why.

Beth liked Daryl, and she respected him. He was annoying right now, sure, but he’d done his part to keep her safe and fed. She’d done the same in turn. But life needed so much more than food and water to thrive. There was a difference between being alive and having a life.

Beth had been in the process of picking through an old Bible when she felt it; warmth. She looked up from her book to see the massive throw of itchy material laid across her calves. Daryl jutted his chin at her, as if to tell her something. She looked over the blanket, one for protecting furniture in transit maybe, and then back to him.

She drew the blanket up up her hips, and watched as he picked through the rest of the ‘house’. There was nothing to find, except an excuse to keep her away. She wriggled her legs, to find comfort in the pile of cushions. She had left some for Daryl beside her, not too close but enough to offer that solidarity. She trusted this spot the most out of the house, with the leave damaged section of the roof. Daryl rounded on her once more, the house picked clean. He had a garbage bag, a few jabs and edges lined along the black plastic.

Daryl looked over her, and she returned the stare. There was a long moment where he seemed to recognize her, where he would  _look_ at her without the abrupt glare away. Beth folded the book up and placed it aside, her expression open, curious. She hazarded a smile, and he only narrowed his eyes. He remained still, hands flexed and wound up at each of his thighs. He seemed to be psyching himself up into something, but Beth was unsure  _what_.

Beth dropped down to her back, eyes fixed on the speckled ceiling. There was a rustle, as faint as anything, but she remained focused above her. There was silence still, the soft breath from her, the determined silence from Daryl. She waited a long while to look to him, afraid she'd spook him.

He had curled up on the floor beside the cushions she had laid out for him, an arm under his head and a frown on his lips.

_“Stay warm.”_

Maybe she’d imagined that, because they didn’t speak to one another. Or, he didn’t speak to her anyway. 


	5. possum junk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "Send me a ✿ and my muse (Daryl) will react to your muse (Beth) putting a flower in their hair."

It was the possum’s fault. That was his only defense. He was too engrossed in the char-grilled possum,  and he missed her footsteps growing closer. Didn’t matter that he had seen her out of the corner of his eye, and he had thought nothing of her approach. He stayed _aware_  of her, and of her presence, but not of her intent. Beth was hard for him to completely ignore, even if he seemed outwardly unaffected.

There was never a reason for her to get close to him, and he never expected her to, either.

The soft fingers by his ear, against his hair, he wanted to flinch away. And he does, slightly, given he doesn’t want to appear weak. It was just enough for her to notice. Daryl only flinched out of habit. Not because he doesn’t trust her, or doesn’t want to be near her, but because people rarely got close to him to offer kind touches. It was usually a walker, or a stranger, both intent on harm.

There was familiar affection between those in the group, his _family_ , but it wasn’t that with Beth. She was cooing for him to stop struggling, stop _moving_ , so he obliges. This stillness allows her to do _whatever_ she had been intent on, and he paused his meal. His hands hung by his chin, his eyes narrowed at her. He was on the Grimes’ porch, and she’d been screwing around in the garden.

❛There you go.❜ Beth lingered, smiling too sweetly at him, lip caught between her teeth as she tried _not_ to laugh. He had since learned to not focus on the scars, and focus on her eyes. It was hard right now, given how _bubbly_ and happy she was being.

❛What?❜

And she was giggling, but there was still the feather light touch against his temple. He roughly swatted at his head, ignoring the fat that was coating his hands, the blood, the _offal_ , and the flower fell out. He looked up, confused, but it finally clicked.

❛Oh gross.❜ Beth winced, looking sadly at the flower she had placed behind his ear. She looked from the flower to him, pointing to his head. ❛It’s in your hair, Daryl… The squirrel _junk_.❜

Daryl grunted at it, then her, then continued to eat his squirrel. He’d clean his hair out later. For the moment a chunk of squirrel was a damn sight better than flowers in his hair. He watched her retreating form with a guilt, no laughter, no nothing, just rounded shoulders and her head down.

His eating slowed, then stopped, and he plucked the ruined flower up off the porch. His lips twisted back and forth, his nose twitching around the frown he couldn’t quite form. He remained impassive, reminded of the cardigan he’d ruined, the pigs feet, the trunk of the car, all the times he’d actively sullied what Beth had.

Daryl tossed the squirrel remains away and took to trying to clean off the flower. It wasn’t happening, given his dirty hands, from grease, from the squirrel, from whatever shit was under his nails. The flower was very much dead, and he couldn’t even tell you what kind it was. Something white, big yellow center, rounded petals, soft and not something he should be within arms’ reach of.

He tossed it away, too, leaning to place his arms on his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> Consider leaving a comment or kudos, thank you!


End file.
